


The Dark, Sacred Night

by musicprincess1990



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A few lemons, Angst, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, F/M, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Content, Post-Reichenbach, Song Lyrics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-05-08 01:21:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14683476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicprincess1990/pseuds/musicprincess1990
Summary: Three nighttime encounters between Sherlock and Molly, featuring lyrics from songs performed by the great Louis Armstrong. Very mild lemons, almost more lemonade.





	The Dark, Sacred Night

> ****_Give me a kiss before you leave me,  
> _ ****_And my imagination will feed my hungry heart.  
>  Leave me one thing before we part:  
> A kiss to build a dream on._

* * *

 

A little less than twelve hours ago, Sherlock Holmes was pronounced dead.

The man himself, still very much alive, now stood in the sitting room of Molly Hooper’s surprisingly spacious flat, while she made tea. It seemed rather ridiculous, but they were British, after all. The idea that all problems became less troubling after a nice cuppa was part of their DNA. Besides… they were stalling.

He had until dawn, then Mycroft would arrive in one of his ridiculously conspicuous cars and drive him to a private hangar. From there, a helicopter would take him to Marseilles, where he would begin the daunting task of dismantling Moriarty’s extensive network. He didn’t know how long that would take, but something told him he would not be returning to London any time soon. Truth be told, he would have liked to have spent the night wandering the streets, memorizing the city (more than he already had). Unfortunately, his “death” made that a bit difficult.

Which left him here, with Molly.

The woman in question appeared, as if summoned by his thoughts, carrying two steaming mugs. She handed one to him with a brief smile, and he accepted with one of his own. They sat together on the sofa, drinking in silence. Sherlock searched for the words to say, but came up with nothing. What could he say to the woman who brought about his demise, falsified his death certificate, and was now sitting with him drinking tea as if it were all completely normal? Sherlock’s stomach twisted with guilt. She had done so much for him, without asking why, or what it would cost her. Her faith and trust in him was unprecedented, and entirely unwarranted. What had he ever done to earn it? _Not a damn thing._

Perhaps it was the guilt that compelled him to speak at last. “Thank you, Molly,” he murmured, though his voice seemed to echo in the otherwise silent flat. “I’ve asked much of you, and you have been kind enough to assist me, at no small cost to yourself.”

“S’okay,” she whispered in reply. “I offered to help. Practically demanded it, in fact,” she finished with a quiet laugh.

Sherlock smiled, despite the situation, recalling her words. _Tell me what’s wrong_. And then, _What do you need?_

His answer had surprised even himself, but he wondered if it had been the first time he’d been truly honest with her. He needed Molly Hooper. Not just in the lab or the morgue, but in his life. He needed her friendship, her strength, her kindness. And he was selfish enough to take it, all of it, any chance he could.

“I know I can’t offer much,” he heard himself speaking again, “as I will be gone in a matter of hours, but… should you ever need anything from me, you need only ask.”

There. He had said it. He went over the words in his mind, and was proud to say he could think of nothing that John would deem _not good_. Thoughts of John, unfortunately, brought a pang of regret. He wished he could tell his friend he was still alive. But the risk was too great. Should he be seen, and recognized, the whole plan, so perfectly executed, would be for naught. And even if he managed to remain unnoticed, John was terrible at keeping secrets.

“Anything?”

Sherlock started, having nearly forgotten where he was, and who he was with. He took a moment to remind himself of the conversation, then looked at Molly with a frown. She appeared, or would to the untrained eye, perfectly composed and indifferent, as if her one-word query meant very little to her. But his highly-trained eye caught the subtle tremor as she lifted the cup to her lips, the too-frequent blinks of her eyes, the flush of pink blossoming in her cheeks. Whatever she intended to ask of him, it was taking a great deal of courage to do so, and he found himself all the more curious as to what it might be.

“Yes, of course,” he replied evenly, real honesty in his words. “Anything.”

Molly swallowed her tea, set the half-emptied cup on the coffee table, and slowly turned her eyes to his. A thousand emotions flicked across her chocolate orbs, and he had to admit, he couldn’t quite place most of them. Finally, a look of calm determination settled on her face, and she took a long, deep breath.

“Kiss me.”

Had Sherlock been in the process of taking a drink, it would have sprayed across the room, and likely her face. Thankfully, he wasn’t, and he had already set his own cup down, eliminating the equally likely possibility of dropping it and spilling tea all over her carpet. As it was, he merely sat, stunned, attempting to process what she had said.

_Kiss her?_ After everything he’d done to her, all the hell he’d put her through… still, she wanted more? Either her ability to forgive was truly saint-like, or she was a masochist. Perhaps both, now he thought of it. In any case, she was far too good, too kind, too unblemished. She deserved better.

Sherlock opened his mouth to gently refuse, but as he met her eyes again, the words caught in his throat. They were wide and warm and full of hope, but also a poignant understanding. As if she already knew he would refuse. As if she had known even before she asked, but felt she had to ask anyway. Of course she knew. She could see him, after all, better than anyone. She saw who he was, _what_ he was, the good and the bad… and _still_ …

Well. That settled it.

He shifted a bit, turning to face her fully, and watched her eyes grow wider still. Ah, so she _had_ expected him to refuse. Sherlock fought a satisfied smirk, and focused on the task at hand. Despite what many people believed, he did in fact have some experience in this area. He’d been at uni, and had experimented with nearly every form of drug in existence during that time. It was foolish to think a hormonal, twenty-something man under the influence of various substances would have no interest in sex. Granted, his level of interest was far lower than other young men of his age, but still, he had been curious. And it seemed that curiosity was about to pay off.

Molly swallowed again, but mirrored his movements, twisting in her seat until she sat with her back against the arm rest. He scooted closer, his eyes never leaving hers, and an odd sort of anticipation washed over him. With slow, deliberate movements, he settled in front of her, less than a foot of distance between them.

“You-you don’t have to, you know,” she stammered. “I was… I was just kidding.”

Now, Sherlock _did_ smirk. “Well, I wasn’t,” he replied. “I said ‘Anything,’ and I meant it.”

“But you, you don’t…” she trailed off mid-sentence, an adorable frown puckering her features. _Wait, since when is her frown adorable?_

He shrugged one shoulder, in response to both Molly’s confusion and his own silent question. “I don’t,” he agreed, moving steadily closer. He hovered just above her parted lips, and the sensation of each soft, warm breath across his own lips sent a tingle across his frame. “But that doesn’t mean I _can’t_.”

And with that, he closed the remaining distance and covered her mouth with his. The effect was, to put it mildly, _surprising_. From the moment of contact, a ticklish fire spread over him and settled in the pit of his stomach. A quiet, breathy moan met his ears, sparking another flame, this one somehow stronger. His hands moved of their own volition to cradle her face, and hers fisted around the lapels of his jacket. Sherlock angled his head to one side, deepening the kiss. Molly matched him easily, and her hands shifted, one resting on the back of his neck, the other burying itself in his hair.

When her fingers closed and tugged at his hair, the fire intensified, and drifted down to his groin. A second moan sounded, and he dimly registered that this time, it had come from him. Immediately, an alarm blared inside his head, and with great reluctance (which he would never admit to), he severed the connection.

Molly whimpered at the loss of contact, and her eyes flew open. He could just make out the deep brown of her irises, a thin ring around her dilated pupils, and he imagined his own eyes looked rather similar. _Not good_.

“There,” he said, his voice rough and breathless. He cleared his throat before speaking again, much more evenly, “Will that do?”

She opened her mouth to respond, then paused, closing it again. Sherlock held his breath, hoping she would say yes. If she didn’t, if she asked for more… he didn’t think he’d be able to stop himself.

Mercifully, her reply, when she finally got around to it, was, “I suppose.”

Sherlock nodded. “Good. Now, I think we both could use some sleep.”

They each stood, and Molly whispered a half-hearted, “Good night,” before scurrying off into her bedroom. Sherlock swallowed hard at the abrupt silence, but nodded once again to himself. It was for the best, really. To go any further, become more involved in… whatever that was… would be detrimental to them both. Especially Molly.

Despite this assurance, Sherlock’s mind flowed with memories of the kiss, memories he would never be able to delete, not that he wanted to. It had been… well… sensational was the word that came to mind. Yes, he would certainly be filing that away. Deep in the archives of his mind palace, where it would be ignored, though not forgotten.

But not tonight. Tonight, in these last precious hours, he would remember. And he would dream.


End file.
